


The Sky is Falling

by just_kiss_already



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Daddy Kink, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Hallucinations, Incest, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, second chapter is the sexy chapter, sort of? The chemical reactions make these two crazier, this almost feels a bit a/b/o lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-19 03:28:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22604431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_kiss_already/pseuds/just_kiss_already
Summary: Malcolm gets his soulmark late in life. Then he finds his match. It’s not a happy discovery.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Martin Whitly
Comments: 13
Kudos: 184





	1. Chapter 1

Most people get their mark around the end of their teen years. Some get it later, even in their mid-twenties, but these late bloomers are still the lucky ones because some don’t get one at all.

The marks come in a variety of shapes and sizes and without pain. One day you are you, comfortably familiar, and the next you might have a wine-colored blob the size of a quarter on your ankle or maybe a deep bronze spatter that covers half of your face. Fashion styles change but always with a mind to show off these marks. Often, custom-tailored clothes are given as presents if there’s a party. And of course the posts on social media. Dating sites claiming to be able to match based on marks. Children drawing on their arms and legs with markers. Tattoo artists giving people fake ones or covering up unwanted ones. 

They are commonly referred to as “soul marks.” If a person has one, there is a a high probability that someone else in the world has a matching one, meaning they are—supposedly—destined to be together. Sometimes the marks fail. Some people don’t have the time or resources to backpack across the globe to find their match. Some people aren’t born with marks at all, and people sigh and shake their heads and pity them. 

The easiest way to know if you’ve met your match is by touch. Skin to skin such as holding hands, even brushing bare arms as you pass each other on the street, it feels like a small electric shock. It only happens once or twice in the beginning and then fades away.

There’s a small industry of sex toys designed to mimic this sensation.

Martin despises soul marks.

He has no use for the concept of destiny or a soulmate. Some gullible oaf that would expect to be allowed in with unfettered access to his life. Unacceptable. He has one, a small mark the color of merlot, on his inner elbow. He hides it with long sleeves—jackets and cardigans and dress shirts—and avoids touching others as much as possible. Always checks, though. Once checked the practice cadavers in medical school. After that checked the patients on his operating table. And his other patients.

He married Jessica for camouflage. Remarkable lineage and money and, best of all, no soul mark. A proud, beautiful woman that he could admire even as he used her for her family connections and resources. She put him through school so he wooed her with flowers, kisses, intimacy, something she was told by society would never happen to her. Martin claimed his match had died, claimed all he wanted was a family. 

He still does care for Jess, in his own way. He admires her poise and style. And her ruthlessness. 

Baby Malcolm came. Then Ainsley. They were boring, all fat cheeks and sausage legs. Jessica eventually welcomed the role of mother with some help from nannies, while Martin was again free to pursue... his other interests.

Until Malcolm began to talk.

It was fascinating, unexpectedly, the way his child grew and developed. The way he processed his environment, the external stimuli, digested it all and relayed it back from his own limited perspective. Martin found himself caught up in the grand experiment of it all. Feed the child information, see what comes out. See how he accesses it at unexpected times, spewing facts or skewed conclusions. It was all so very thrilling. Martin toyed with the physical in work and private, but here was the mental. Here he could shape this child, his offspring, from the inside out.

And he felt love.

Or something akin to love.

————————

Malcolm sits in the waiting room of the psychiatric institute in which his father resides. He periodically rubs his right arm at the crook of the elbow, unaware he is doing it. There’s a feeling flooding him but he’s not quite sure what it is. Excitement, maybe. Relief. Trepidation.

This morning, home from college, eating cereal and reviewing notes for an upcoming exam, Malcolm noticed a stain on his skin. The red-violet tones of a deep bruise. A soul mark. He promptly choked on his cereal then scattered his notes in an effort to grab his napkin.

They don’t discuss soul marks in his family. Malcolm knows his dad has one and his mother does not, but he’s never seen his father’s mark. The few times they’ve come up, it was always academic discussions. Is the mythology of their destiny just an example of implicit egotism. When Martin explained that to expect fate to bring love not only allows for laziness but also removes free will, Malcolm agreed. It was a stupid, cruel trick of genetics, possibly a vestigial trait. 

But they are so hard to avoid. They are everywhere, referenced and displayed and celebrated constantly. And when Malcolm’s didn’t come at sixteen, then eighteen, then when he went away to Harvard, he couldn’t help the sinking disappointment that came with the idea he might not get one.

So this morning, this strange and thrilling and embarrassing morning, Malcolm feels like a different person. And sitting here waiting to be called back through the gate, he berates himself mentally. It’s just a form of hyperpigmentation. It’s just excess melanin, for god’s sake, nothing to get worked up about. And it certainly does not mean he is going to find his soulmate, that is just a ridiculous superstition. Even if he has a soulmate he might not ever find them. They might live in India, or the Alps, or they might be dead. Absolutely stupid.

The guard unlocks the gate and calls Malcolm through. It’s early, visiting time hadn’t officially started when he arrived, but Malcolm is heading back to Harvard soon so he wants to spend as much time as possible with his father. He knows the guards think he’s sick, but when Martin smiles and calls him “son” it’s like they’re back home in the hobby room studying old medical textbooks. And his father does occasionally have some insights into Malcolm’s psychology courses.

Last time they spoke they discussed Gein. Martin called him pedestrian and posited that the killer’s habit of making furniture and clothes stemmed from a sort of farmhouse practicality. Malcolm has every intention of bringing that up, but his blood is racing, making it hard to keep his thoughts on track. With every person he sees he wonders, could that be them? 

The door to the cage is open as usual, Martin reclining on his bed with a book in hand. Glancing up, he smiles and places a slip of paper between the pages, setting the book down on the mattress.

“Malcolm,” Martin says, rising to his feet. He always sounds so pleasantly surprised about these visits, it fills Malcolm with a secret warmth knowing how happy his father appears to be when he sees him. ”Come, have a seat.”

Martin’s smile is infectious today, or perhaps Malcolm is just happy. It’s hard to know. He steps over to his usual spot and drops his backpack on the ground but he can’t bring himself to sit. He’s too excited. Nervous energy sparks through his legs, making him pace. If he holds still he might burst. “I want to discuss Gein more, you implied his time on the family farm-“

“Malcolm, good heavens, sit down. You’re making me anxious.” Martin is staring at him, blue eyes narrowed. Studying him. Not wanting to discuss his mark yet, Malcolm stops abruptly, flushing; he’s never had a poker face and is almost convinced his father will deduce what has happened.

They remain as they are for a minute. Malcolm feels like a bug being inspected with a magnifying glass. 

Martin gets to his feet, chains clanking as they jostle. He approaches slowly like one might a nervous wild animal to reassure both the guards and his son. “You’re very agitated this morning... No tremor, though.” With one cuffed hand he points at Malcolm’s steady one. “Good news, then? The intro to neuroscience course? You were a tad worried about the midterm...”

Ducking his head, Malcolm fights the pang of happiness that reverberates through him at the fact that his father remembers their conversations so clearly. “No, I got an A.”

“That’s my boy!” Martin steps closer, a little more than an arm’s span away. “I am so proud of you! Not that I had any doubt. You are my son, after all. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree as they say.”

Malcolm’s delight shrivels at that. It reminds him of his nightmares too much. Of what people say about him, both behind his back and to his face. He tries to shove the thought out of his head. He’s never hurt anyone and he’s not about to start. Instead he should be concentrating on getting the conversation back on track. “It’s fine, I’m fine, just too much coffee I guess.” He turns to head back to his spot on the floor but Martin’s hands reach out as far as they’re able with his complicated restraints. Malcolm glances at his father’s face and catches the tail end of a grimace directed at the handcuffs.

“Come here,” Martin says, voice firm. A fatherly demand. Malcolm feels rooted to the spot, he’s not about to willingly move closer towards danger. “You clearly have something to tell me that is making you anxious. Just come here and tell me what it is so we can discuss it. You’ll feel better.”

Malcolm feels the pull towards his father like a physical tether. The entire weight of his childhood up to age eleven is pushing on his back, a massive pressure that makes his whole body ache. He reminds himself that this is not the father he remembers from childhood. That was never a real person. Real is a killer who wanted nothing more than to torture people with as much suffering as possible. Malcolm’s foot slides and his weight shifts, almost imperceptibly, but then Martin is closer, grabbing the sleeve of Malcolm’s sweater. Malcolm realizes that his father pretended to be at the end of his tether so that Malcolm might unknowingly step too far forward.

Even thought he is reasonably certain of his safety, Malcolm still opens his mouth to yell for Mr. David. 

“No, no, no, hush now,” Malcolm says hurriedly, “I won’t hurt you, son, I would never.”

Malcolm looks up into the other man’s face, studying it. He is a little afraid what might happen if he does yell for help, if he upsets his father. So instead he reads his tells. No fidgeting, no held breath or darting eyes, no aggressive body language. At least on the surface, no visible anxiety, no immediate danger. Maybe... maybe it would be okay to tell him about the mark. Maybe his father will have some advice.

Still scrutinizing his father’s face, Malcolm says quietly, “my soulmark appeared last night.”

Silent, Martin’s face goes through a series of minute adjustments before settling on politely disinterested. “Ah. Well.” He doesn’t step back or let go and for a second Malcolm entertains the idea of a hug, just like when he was a child. “I’m sure your mother is already planning which well-to-do families with eligible daughters will receive the gossip first.”

Malcolm narrows his eyes, feeling defensive. This is supposed to be a special day, it started out with so much promise and now just a few flippant words are ruining it. He wants to start over if his father is going to treat him with contempt for an involuntary bodily change. Taking a step back, Malcolm intends to head out of reach, maybe even leave, but Martin twists his hands, gathering up a fistful sweater to reel him in before grabbing Malcolm’s wrist.

It’s like being touched by ice so cold it feels hot. Like touching a live wire. It shoots up Malcolm’s arm and goes straight to his brain. Cold electricity. From the spot Martin grabbed.

His extremities are tingling in the aftermath. Worse, so much worse, he’s abruptly aroused. That wasn’t in any biology textbooks. 

Malcolm is still reeling in confusion when his father shoves the sleeve of the green Harvard sweater up. As Martin stares down at the evidence before him, Malcolm stares at him. This makes no sense. That feeling, he remembers reading a sanitized description of it in health class. But... Here. With him. He’s never heard of a case of soulmates with this much of an age gap. Or, worse, relatives.

This can’t be happening.

A soft inhale then exhale draws him out of the quicksand of his thoughts. His father’s breath brushes against his face. Same toothpaste as always, a familiar and comforting smell. The older man shoves the sleeve of his sweater up and there it is, undeniable proof. A perfect match.

Even as Malcolm whispers no in denial, Martin is reaching out, reaching for him. “Oh, my boy,” Martin murmurs, softly, sweetly. Malcolm winces at the tenderness then winces again when Martin reverently strokes the inside of his wrist. That cold heat fills him, makes him gasp involuntarily. From under his lashes his glances up at his father, watches the way his eyelids flutter and his lips part. Malcolm mimics him subconsciously, parting his own lips, his tongue darting out to wet them. “This is... unexpected.”

Malcolm can’t speak. His heart is racing, his breath shallow. Martin shifts, his body brushes against Malcolm’s. His father’s cologne makes him dizzy. 

“I have to go.” Malcolm knows what he should be doing, he should be running as far away as possible. He should be calling his therapist and a tattoo artist that specializes in coverups, anything but swaying on his feet, rooted to the spot, mesmerized. Is this how it is for everyone? Do they all feel like they’re under a spell? How can anyone stand it?

Martin’s eyes narrow and he smiles, not entirely comforting. “You can’t,” he says, his voice commanding.

Malcolm frowns, eyebrows furrowing. He’s never taken well to demands. Feeling like he’s struggling up from the depths of a dream, Malcolm pulls his arm out of the other man’s grip. He‘s foggy but it’s clearing.

Taking a few quick steps back, Malcolm pulls out of reach, dodging his dad’s grasping hands. “I’m going.” 

He tries not to hear what Martin is yelling as he runs off. Just like he’s going to try to forget this. 

He can never come back.


	2. Chapter 2

Years. The endless ticking by of minutes and hours and days and weeks and years and it’s all come back to this, to nothing, to pointlessness. Here again in the exact spot he never wanted to be. Promised himself he never would be. A few feet away from Martin Whitly’s cell. 

Malcolm tried so hard to hide his mark. And did a damn good job of it, too; even his busybody mother still doesn’t know about it. What few sexual partners he took in college were casual enough flings that never cared. Long sleeves get rolled up only so far, even in summer. Conversations are delicately steered to avoid the topic as much as possible. And, always, snippets of time stolen for research conducted in private. Is it possible? Has it happened to other families? Yes, extremely rarely, but yes. Disheartening answers hidden away from polite society. What’s worse, there is always a lack of follow up. No one cares to know what these poor people did after the discovery. No one wants to know. 

But those minor inconveniences weren’t the worst. The worst was the ache. The longing. Knowing that he wasn’t alone, he wasn’t supposed to be alone. Knowing that the remedy wasn’t actually out of reach except for Malcolm’s own self-imposed exile. Laying in bed rubbing his mark and trying so hard to not think about it. About him. And those letters from Claremont, the ones from which he could detect the faintest whiff of a familiar cologne? They were shoved to the bottom of his hidden stash of all things Surgeon. He couldn’t read them, not if he wanted to stay in his right mind. Not if this wretched plan was going to work. 

After all those agonizingly slow years ticking by, here he is, about to yet again enter his father’s cell, the two of them alone.

It was just a few hours ago, trapped inside Claremont as Jin lay dying from a stab wound, Malcolm passed Martin the scalpel and...

Martin twitched his finger...

Malcolm is certain it was deliberate. The briefest of touches, just enough to send an unspoken message sizzling down his arm to spread until he’s burning all over. Their eyes met, Martin’s full of dreadful acknowledgement, and then the allure of a bleeding patient took precedence. Now Jin is hospitalized with Gil and a bunch of officers trying to sort out what happened and why. And Malcolm—dirty, exhausted, still wearing the same clothes—is standing in front of the doors to his father’s cell because he couldn’t wait any longer. 

It took a number of phone calls and some careful bribes, but his father has been kept out of solitary for a few more hours. Authorities know Martin had a hand in today’s events but don’t have any proof. Not until Tevin wakes up. 

Malcolm places his palm on one of the doors, letting the cool of the wood seep in. It’s grounding, a little. The contrast of the treated grain against his overheated skin. This isn’t right, the words play over and over in his head, varying in pitch and volume, endless. This isn’t right. Malcolm tries to reassure himself that he has questions, about the knife, about the station wagon, about the Junkyard Killer. An endless discordant counterpoint. 

His nerves are frayed.

All it takes is shifting, letting gravity make the decision for him. Pressure increases and the door swings in and he sees his father reclining in his chair, head lifting from the book he’s reading.

“Malcolm! They said I had some time before solitary, this certainly was not the reason I expected. What a wonderful surprise!” Martin gets to his feet, setting his book on the desk. His hands are uncuffed and Malcolm’s pulse spikes as his father rolls his shoulders and grunts, shirt riding up slightly to reveal a promise of skin. When Malcolm lifts his eyes, he realizes his father is far too aware of where he was looking.

Flushing, disturbed, Malcolm folds his arms across his chest and promptly drops them since it’s a defensive posture. “I have questions,” Malcolm attempts, trying to project confidence. Professionalism. “The junkyard-“

“I wonder,” Martin interrupts, “how much of today will be included in that broadcast.” He steps closer to Malcolm and drops his voice, forcing the younger man to strain to hear. “Will she include you? Do you think she might spill all your secrets on television? Or rather, all of our secrets?”

The blood drains from Malcolm’s face. Ainsley didn’t know, she didn’t mention it during the interview earlier. But. If she found out. Would she? Her ambition, her drive for rating and approval, would she sell out her own family for what she craves? Martin occasionally gives hidden information as offhand comments, could he have given Ainsley the key to the closet of that particular skeleton the same way?

Martin stops directly before him, just on the other side of that red line, a familiar position. Malcolm feels the sense memory of the scalpel echo against his fingers.

“I haven’t forgotten, Malcolm,” Martin murmurs. The room has become unbearably intimate, it feels like they’re the last two left in the entirety of the building. Of New York. “I could never forget. I had to stop myself, you know, it took all of my willpower to let you have your life in Quantico, in the FBI.”

Malcolm frowns, lowering his eyes. That’s not what happened, his life is the result of his own choices, he shaped his own destiny. His father taught him that as a child. But that was never exactly true either, was it. “You... No, you didn’t ‘let’ me do anything... I escaped-“

Martin laughs. “Escaped what? Biology? I never believed, I refused to believe in these silly things, but I felt it.” As he speaks, he peels his cardigan off, lets it fall to the floor. There’s no long-sleeved shirt underneath and the mark on his elbow is like a magnet, drawing Malcolm’s eyes. “You felt it, didn’t you, son?”

Martin’s voice is hypnotic. It’s so low and rumbles around Malcolm, he feels it on his skin. Malcolm recognizes what’s happening, it happened before, when he first learned about his father’s mark, this unmooring. His mind feels increasingly murky, he can barely penetrate the intoxicated fog that is taking over. But is it because of the physiology of soul marks or because of the endorphins from the stress of what he’s about to do, he wants to ask Martin, he would know.

Malcolm replies, “I felt it,” and walks towards his father.

————————

The gleam in Martin’s eyes is unholy. Grinning, he raises his hands but doesn’t touch. Not yet. He wants to so badly and he knows Malcolm does because the boy shakes with the effort of holding back.

“Oh Malcolm, I knew, I always knew you’d come back to me. Now take off that jacket and shirt. Let me see it on you again.”

Those few seconds so long ago were enough, he memorized every detail of it and played it over and over in his mind. But he knows Malcolm needs this very visual reminder of their connection. They could rush into this, but the remaining barriers in Malcolm’s mind would prevent him from returning. No, better to take his time and make sure he truly owns every atom of his son’s being.

It’s a struggle to hurry but Malcolm tries. He seems drunk now that he’s finally giving in to his desire, surely so filthy and perverted to a nice repressed boy like him. His hands are clumsy in their haste, but Martin can’t help him, won’t touch him until his son has earned his reward. 

As Malcolm finishes with his shirt, Martin admires. So slender, so pale, so perfectly shaped. His beautiful rounded shoulders and sharply edged collar bone. The arms, Martin could sketch those arms alone for days, the interplay of slim elegance and firm muscle, the coarse hair on his forearm that Martin is pleased to see. Here and there are hints of inherited traits, echoes of himself but on a form of unearthly grace. 

Martin bites the inside of his cheek, hard. The soul mark is effecting him now, quicker than expected.

“There, now.” Martin turns his arm outwards and nods his head towards Malcolm’s. “Isn’t that lovely? A perfect match. According to research, if we were to use current technology to examine the pattern down to the smallest level of discernible detail, it would still match. Isn’t that something.” Malcolm is staring at the marks, blinking rapidly, tears threatening; he’s still trying to resist. Internally Martin sighs but he’s also proud, it wouldn’t do for his son to be too weak of will. Thankfully he’s close enough now, he’s within reach. Martin decides: it’s time, he can let it overtake them both now.

Grabbing Malcolm’s face, palms sliding against the stubble of his jaw, Martin caught off-guard by the explosion of sensations. The colors of Malcolm’s face and hair, before just familiar shades, are a riot of hues from the entire spectrum. His cheeks shine like pure gold as teal and orange crowd in the shadows around his eyes. And his eyes, Martin could die in those eyes. The texture of his skin, so perfectly chilled and so silken. The sound of skin hissing against skin, the texture of the fine invisible hairs like peach fuzz. Martin’s heart gallops in his throat, his cock throbs, dear god his entire body yearns, he aches-

Malcolm cries out, eyes rolling back, overwhelmed. That won’t do, Martin needs him, he needs his boy. Catching him and gathering his loose limbed body against him, Martin sinks to the floor, careful to guide his son down safely. Malcolm gratifyingly clings to him, coming back into himself as he acclimates to the intensity.

“My boy,” Martin whispers, grinning. He peppers kisses across the younger man’s face, his cheeks and his brow and his nose. “My perfect boy.” He studies Malcolm’s lips, watches him part them as he finishes waking, before kissing him. Malcolm opens readily and obediently for his father, a moan trapped between them, one hand weakly pushing against Martin’s bare shoulder even as the other strokes his beard. 

Martin smiles, laughing gently. “You always did love playing with my beard, hm?” Malcolm closes his eyes beneath him, flushing with shame at the reminder of their shared blood.

Stretching out on the floor, Martin gathers Malcolm to him again, pulling him halfway on top. Malcolm whimpers, clinging to his father’s shoulders as Martin shifts his leg just right, thick thigh between Malcolm’s own, and rubs against his erection.

Pulling him down to whisper in his ear, Martin grinds his own dick against Malcolm’s hip and says, “it’s okay, I promise. Dad wants you to feel good, sweetheart.”

Malcolm shivers uncontrollably and buries his face in his father’s neck, licking and sucking the skin there, every instance of contact like a tiny jolt from a battery racing straight up and down the spine. “Dad-“ Malcolm whines. He moves tentatively as if afraid, rocking back and forth with agonizing slowness. 

“You’re doing so good.” Martin wraps his arms around the younger man, both to comfort and to assist. “So good, such a good, clever boy. Your daddy is so proud of you.”

The word “daddy” does something to Malcolm. He sobs but speeds up, his grip on Martin’s shoulder like talons. The other hand moves to Martin’s chest, then down to his stomach, sliding over the tether belt and down to lightly cup his erection. It’s the most intense pleasure Martin has ever felt, but his own pleasure is not what this is about, not entirely.

Grabbing his son’s hips, he pushes him into his back, Malcolm’s legs falling open. And now Martin can see his boy’s beautiful face, red from shame, wet from tears. Taking a minute to collect himself, Martin strokes Malcolm’s cheek, pushing the hair off of his son’s forehead. “I want to see your beautiful face, can you keep eye contact?”

Some tears escape and slide down his temples and into his hair, Martin can almost smell them. Like spring rain. “Yes!” Malcolm gasps. “Please, just... let me-“

“Use your words, son.”

Malcolm shakes his head, stubborn, some of the drunkenness is wearing off. That’s good. Let this be clear headed, let Malcolm continue while fully aware of the implications and their shared appetite. 

The clear blue of his eyes never leave Martin’s face. 

One-handed, deftly, Martin undoes the belt and zipper of his son’s slacks and slides his hand inside, running his fingers featherlight over Malcolm’s dick. Panting, chest hitching with needy sobbing whines, Malcolm reaches for him, pulling him into a deep kiss with one hand buried in his curls and the other running through his beard.

“Are you going to come for me, Malcolm? Are you going to let dear old dad see your exquisite face when you do?” Martin asks rhetorically into his son’s mouth. Malcolm’s expression has changed subtly, there’s a vast and churning ocean of love and passion and lasciviousness, and ocean Martin wants them both to drown in, but he can see the tiniest hint of resistance, a small dot of land out in the middle of it all where Malcolm’s remaining ethics and shame and resentment hide.

Martin is going to find that resistance and he’s going to kill it. Forever.

Martin tightens his grip, sweat and precome making his hand slick. Malcolm’s back arches, he’s getting close, so Martin leans closer and whispers, “you’re my son, MY boy. MY soulmate. I’ve always known, Malcolm, in my heart. You’re the only one I’ve ever loved.”

Even as he comes, Malcolm’s will is shattering, his heart is swelling, and Martin sees the island no more.

**Author's Note:**

> Join the Trash Ship Server for PSon https://discord.gg/7ZZpTa


End file.
